


with every heartbeat i have left

by myladybrienne



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Battle, brienne is a soft lil beb, everyone hates jaime, jaime is injured, no major deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 10:44:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18619039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myladybrienne/pseuds/myladybrienne
Summary: jaime gets injured. brienne is here to help. confession ensues.---okay STORYTIME i used to hate braime and think that jaime wasn't worthy of his own redemption arc and i recently did a 180 on this topic and now i would die for the both of them. so i was thinking about the 'dying in the arms of the woman i love' thing and THIS happened. i want to get back into writing fic again bc ive missed it and i am free for the next couple of months now So if anyone has requests then send them my way.





	with every heartbeat i have left

She hadn’t seen him in hours. Not since he had cut down that great ugly bastard who had tried to throw her from her steed. A nod of acknowledgment and they were off again, in opposite directions, to fight the greatest foe either of them had ever known. 

“Ser Brienne!” she heard the familiar voice of her squire at Winterfell’s gates and kept her gaze locked on the wide fields ahead of her, coated thickly now with the death of the past night. 

Dawn had come to shed light on it all. 

“What is it, Podrick?” she questioned nervously. A moment’s peace was rarely more than a moment these days. 

“It’s Ser Jaime. He’s asking for you,” Pod explained timidly, head bowed slightly as his liege lady snapped around to look at him. “He’s injured.” 

Not now, she pleaded as she hurried inside to the main hall where all the wounded had been gathered. Just one battle without another tear at my heart. 

He was laid out flat on the ground, his hand holding bandages against his gut and his stump laid freely at his side. If it weren’t for the rich, deep red pooling beneath his hand, he would’ve appeared fine. 

“Lady Brienne,” he mumbled tiredly, “I would rise if it were within my remit.” 

She scoffed at him; still witty, still sharp as a tack, even half-dead. Trademark Lannister smirk still gracing his lips, face untarnished. 

“What has Tarly said? How long until you’re back in fighting form?” Brienne questioned, allowing herself to cling to hope as though she might be able to ignore the bleeding until it was stemmed. 

Sadness made his eyes glassy as he looked at her, tried to offer his own acceptance up to her as though it might ease her own grief.

“He doesn’t think there’s much hope. He’s given me enough Milk of the Poppy to last, but it’s nothing more than a waiting game now. Either it stops bleeding, or it doesn’t.”

“Nonsense, he hasn’t even stitched it yet. There’s more to be done,” high-spirited though she sounded, her anxieties were hard to hide behind that grand smile she painted on. 

Her hand took refuge over his, shy though she remained. For a brief while, they stayed quiet and simply waited as people came and went, hoping that eventually someone would find the time to speak with one or the other of them. 

As the midday sun stood sentry over Winterfell, Samwell Tarly approached the pair nervously. His eyes lingered on Oathkeeper, still nestled comfortably in its sheath.

“Ser Jaime, I am sorry to tell you that there aren’t enough people to treat you. We lost so many in the field today. With the Queen suffering from injuries of her own, there simply is not enough to go around. What we can offer you for the pain is yours, but there are no resources with which to treat you.”

Brienne rose swiftly, towering over the comparatively pitiful frame of the healer with her hand braced threateningly at the hilt of her sword. 

“I hesitate to remind you, Tarly, that if it weren’t for Ser Jaime, we might all be dead. He was instrumental to the battle’s success. Is this how you treat your warriors in the North?” she demanded, eyes narrowed at him. 

“I truly am sorry, Milady, but the Queen must be our priority and such a wound might take hours to stitch and bind,” he mumbled nervously, drawing back from her while he had the chance. 

Brienne drew in a breath, felt her lungs fill to capacity and hoped that the rage pent up inside of her might be forced out. The Tarly boy was doing his best and she knew it, but his best wasn’t enough for her.

“It’s Ser,” grumbled Jaime from between the two of them, forgotten momentarily in the heated confrontation. “She’s a knight, and you ought to respect that, boy.”

“Shut up, Ser Jaime,” she snapped at him without even glancing down. “I’ll stitch and bind the wound. I’m no healer but I’ve dealt with enough injuries over the years to know how to stitch a stab wound. Get me a sewing kit.” 

Sam scuttled off like a beetle, fleeing the fast-moving feet of folk. 

Her knees hit the stone floor and reminded her of how sore she was from the battle. The grimace on her face reminded Jaime. Without thought, her hand returned to his, thumb moving gently, back and again.

“I hope that was some tactic, wench. I’ll be damned if I let you poke me with a needle fifty times over before I die,” he teased, eyes locked on her, watching the unwavering confidence with which she extended her hand towards the approaching maid and pried his hand from the wound. 

Wide eyes glared at her as she threaded the needle and examined the gash beside his hip. 

“Some people might get stage fright, with such a valuable pair of eyes watching their every move.” Brienne stuck the needle into him and did her utmost not to flinch at the grunt of pain it elicited.

“You’ve never been afraid of what I thought of you, I’ve no doubt about that,” he murmured, voice slowing as he entertained the exhaustion that threatened him. 

Her left palm rose to his face, wiped the dust from his cheek and met his gaze with determination. 

“If you think I’m going to let you die, Ser, you underestimate me. Finally bored of mocking me, are you? Have some initiative, what do you think of my womanly skills and bedside manner?” 

Jaime listened to the way she spoke, and he wondered when she would realise they were beyond that. How many more declarations would it take for her to finally stop doubting him? He couldn’t die letting her think this camaraderie was a convenience, certainly not. 

“You know,” he began, “Cersei told me that coming up here to fight the dead was a suicide mission. She said there was no way that I would make it out alive and I think, even back then, I knew she was right. But she didn’t know just how right she was,” 

Brienne continued cautiously with her needle, waiting patiently for his words to come. 

“Bronn and I spoke some time ago of our deaths. He wants a boring death, with wine and property and a heir to the family fortune. I ask only to die in the arms of the woman I love, don’t care when or where or how as long as she’s with me.” 

“And you left her anyway?” Brienne asked, brow furrowed under the guise of concentration. 

“No, Brienne, I rode three days North to find myself a death worthy of her grief, and if you could just stop that nonsense trying to fix me up with catgut, then maybe I could have my dying wish,” he answered, covering her own hand with his and forcing her to meet his gaze, reluctant though she was. 

“Ser Jaime,” she mumbled, “how much Milk of the Poppy did Tarly give you for your pain?”

A silence stretched out between them as Jaime held her attention, forced her to take him seriously for more than a moment. Focus set on not falling unconscious in her arms or letting a new face try to kill them both. 

That damn lock of blonde, she really needed to get Podrick to cut her hair. 

A boldness found its way to him as he reached up and brushed the stray hair behind her ear, allowing his hand to linger there. 

“You always were rather pretty behind all that bravado, wench,” he stated, plain as day, and watched the embarrassment rise crimson in a tide akin to that of Shipbreaker Bay.

Awkward as a fawn on unsteady ground, she glanced one way then the other for a reason to excuse herself. None made itself known and she was forced to remain. 

“I must finish these stitches, perhaps you should rest Ser Jaime, I will wake you when the time comes to eat,” she promised, turning her head into his palm and waiting for him to drop it, defeated. 

As she worked, she noticed the scars that littered his torso. She had seen most of them at one time or another, likely seen a handful of them made, but in the cold light of Winterfell with the warmth of his skin barely there, they were harder to ignore. 

“Admiring my physique, Lady Brienne?” he teased, reminding her of his unwavering presence. 

“I thought it was Ser, now?”

“If I’m permitted to call you wench, I don’t think calling you Lady breaks any rules of etiquette,” he reasoned, watching the way her sapphire eyes glowed with mirth, even as she hid it in the rest of her expression. 

“Your septa clearly didn’t do the best job in teaching what you can and can’t call a woman, but I suppose your deathbed isn’t the right place to teach you such lessons.” 

“Oh, so it is my deathbed now?” he joked, taking note of the way her hand stiffened against his abdomen at the remark. 

Silence hung over them. Time passed slowly, as Brienne took care to bind the wound as neatly as she could. 

If there was even the slightest chance for his survival, he was going to survive. She wouldn’t permit him to die so chivalrously, he was destined for a ridiculous death that court jesters of a distasteful sort might retell. Ser Jaime Lannister would not have a death worthy of songs. 

“Wench, you should go and eat,” Jaime said, readjusting himself on his palette and wondering if she would listen to him. 

“I’m not the only one here who’s yet to find a spare minute to eat, Ser Jaime. I’ve managed longer without a good meal that one long night.” 

“Well, I’m famished, so if you could get someone around here to find me something to eat, I’d be grateful,” he offered instead. 

The concern that graced her expression made his chest ache. She truly would give the world to those she valued, it hurt him only to know he was one among so many. 

Brienne disappeared momentarily and before he even had a chance to complain about the woman’s abrupt departure, she was back at his bedside once more with a cup of water and another blanket. 

“I send you to find food and you return with everything but,” he observed, “no wonder you’ve yet to find a husband for yourself.” 

She drew back at the remark as though burned. The same look that often graced her when his teasing went too far was upon her face. She dropped the blanket on top of him haphazardly and shoved the cup into his hand. 

“Pod went to fetch some soup and bread, he’ll be here shortly,” she bit out, eyes fixed on a group of Wildlings across the room, the ones that normally rallied around Tormund.

“I don’t mean to critique your form in being mad at me, but normally at this point, a person would storm off to let the other person wallow guiltily in peace,” Jaime offered, hoping to lighten the mood though he knew it was a mistake. 

“And leave you here to die? What a novel idea, only I don’t really want to add ‘letting Jaime Lannister die’ to the ever-growing list of failures I carry around. Wallow as you wish, I’m not paying attention,” she grumbled. 

Jaime did indeed wallow, though rather unsuccessfully: for every time he thought of how he’d been cruel to Brienne and how she might never forgive him, he was reminded of her presence at his bedside. Not entirely unforgivable, he supposed. 

The soup was watery and the bread was stale but the feeling of something falling into the empty pit of his gut was enough to raise his spirits for a moment. 

“I apologise for my words, Brienne. I forget that though you’ve known me so long, you aren’t fully accustomed to my bitter sense of humour. I’m sure that if you endeavoured to wed, you’d find the task all too easy,” he offered, lifting up onto his forearms and ignoring the throbbing pain in his gut. 

“Lie down, you idiot! You can be just as sorry lying down as you can trying to burst your bloody stitches,” she snapped at him, shoving him backwards by the shoulders and letting out an exasperated breath. “And not to critique your apologetic form, but really you shouldn’t mock someone while trying to say you’re sorry for mocking them.” 

Jaime looked up at her and wondered how he’d ever believed her nonsense about honour and oaths and choosing to fight rather than to love. His darling wench was just as frightened as the people she protected, she was nothing more than a remarkable actress. 

“I don’t mock you, Brienne, not really. Not since Harrenhal have I teased you with the harshness I once did. You know I never would,“ he reasoned, watching the glassiness that sheeted her sapphire gaze and letting the guilt bind tight inside of his chest. 

“Tormund’s dead. He might have wed me, if only for the luxury of taking me to bed. Nobody is interested in wedding for allegiance in times such as these, so all that is left is love. Nobody is going to love a beast of a woman like me now, are they?” Brienne reeled off, a little more honest than she had intended to be. 

She no longer feared what he thought of her. Not since the baths, not since the bear, not since she realised who he really was. He might tease, but he would never judge her now, not when they had been through so much. 

“Oh Brienne, I swear if I make it through this day alive,” he reached to turn her cheek and force her to look upon him. “I will train with Bronn every day, dawn until dusk, until I believe I am ready, and then I will duel you for your hand, as you always said you would make any man who tried to wed you,” 

Brienne looked at him with bafflement in her gaze. 

“There is only one thing greater than dying in the arms of the woman you love; holding that woman in your arms as your wife.”


End file.
